The Price of Brotherhood
by Swiss Army Knife
Summary: The Goblin King trades Fíli, the only captive who didn't escape the goblin tunnels, to Azog. He is only too happy to throw his broken prize at Thorin's feet when he finally catches up to the company.
1. Chapter 1

Written for this prompt: '_W__hen they're escaping from the goblin tunnels, everyone makes it out...except for F__í__li. Pushing his brother ahead, he falls behind. K__í__li has to be dragged away. Only later do they realize that the Goblin King traded the one captive that didn't escape to avoid Azog's wrath when he didn't have Thorin's head after all._

_Azog is only too happy to cast his broken prize at Thorin's feet when he finally catches up to the company.'_

* * *

**The Price of Brotherhood (1/8)**

By Swiss

* * *

They run, and every muscle in Kíli's body was screaming. His sword felt like dead iron in his hands. He plunged it into another body that came shrieking toward his face, felt the pull of flesh as it bit deep, and then he was past – careening – their company yanked forward by their own momentum. Running and fighting, the goblins lunging around them as they barreled head-first down and down the wooden bridges of the Goblin domain, they followed Gandalf's grey back as though he were an anchor and the rest of them were fastened to him like a chain.

Kíli gasped, tasting iron. He felt the brush of his uncle's fur mantle against his shoulder, a reassuring nearness. At his back was the shouting of his dwarven kin and companions. He heard Bifur's hoarse, wild roar; the shrill grate of Glóin's axe as it grazed stone. Ori, inexperienced and terrified, cried out as he fought with a sound close to a wail, but his brothers were beside him, a whirl of bola chains and heavy blade.

His eyes carried past them, desperately seeking his own brother, but he stumbled over a fresh corpse, tripped, and barely kept his feet as their wild flight continued ever onward. A flash of elvish steel just prevented a goblin spear from penetrating his skull, and he heard his uncle bark, "Kíli! Eyes to front!" before he had his own weapon back to bear in the hellish mêlée.

"The bridge! Cut it!" he heard Gandalf bellow, and then the world beneath him lost gravity.

The wooden planks, held together by moldy rope and filth, swung free as a body, and the dwarves screamed as they were propelled through the air. Then the edge slammed into a bank of stone, and they hurled themselves onto the path. Kíli felt Thorin's hand, steely around his arm, and swung his head back in time to see the bridge collapsing sideways, splintering to fragments as it fell into the impossible void of the deeper caverns.

His pulse hammered as he caught the flash of fair hair at the extreme end of the group, and for a moment he was back on the mountain pass on the knees of the stone giant, watching as a chasm opened between him and his brother in a deluge of rain. A scream burned in his throat – but then Fíli leapt into mid air just as the last board disappeared from under his feet, and cousins Bifur and Bofur pulled him clear. Lightheaded, Kíli raced on, breathless after that near fatal separation.

He wanted nothing more than to stop and be carried back to his brother's side. Since they were children and took their training in the Blue Mountains, this was the manner in which they fought best. And even before then, before they had been taken in and fostered by Thorin, Fíli had been his bulwark of protection, the one wall to which he could always put his back. Without him, Kíli felt exposed, and in terror for his brother's life. However, in this case their own company was between them, and he would not endanger them by so foolish an action.

The heat of the battle was intensifying. Swarms of foul goblins surged from the crevices, dropping from above or climbing from the pits below, their claws letting them fasten to the rock and leap at the company from every angle. Thousands of them, in the heart of their own territory. Even as he wearily lifted his blade, now glistening with sticky black ichor, Kíli knew they would soon be overwhelmed. Then, with a huge cry, the Goblin King heaved himself up before them, laughing and swinging his huge mace.

"Where will you go now, Thorin, king?" the Great Goblin taunted, his massive bulk a wall of flesh, his followers around him like writhing vermin. "Surrender now, and I'll only torture _you_. The rest I will show mercy. I'll crush their skulls with my own hand – sweet night. They won't even be alive when my pretties start to eat them."

Thorin struck out in response, his face thunderous, a black mask of defiance. The Great Goblin parried the blade that he had so fearfully called "the Biter", but his foot made the entire bridge creak as he stumbled back, and in that moment the wizard's staff came down.

A huge sound of rotting wood splintering away, and slivers of debris flew by Kíli's face, scraping his cheeks and brow. His arms drew up to shield his eyes, but once more gravity had abandoned them, and he felt himself lose footing as the bridge they had been standing on scraped like a massive sled down the edges of the cavern, down and down and down, Óin screaming in his ear, until with a huge jarring impact, they slammed into the ground and the tiers of their unlikely vehicle collapsed on top of them.

Compressed by the wreckage and by the weight of his brethren, Kíli lay groaning. "Fíli," he wheezed, struggling to free his pinioned arms, and felt almost faint with relief when he saw his brother below, his blue eyes dazed yet still keen. He clasped Kíli by the hand and hauled him free, and for a moment they were side by side, leaning on one another as they gasped for air. Kíli let his forehead fall against Fíli's shoulder.

"Are you alright?" his brother asked. The fur bordering the collar of his tunic was wetted with blood – His own, or an orcs – but his tranquil, steady eyes were fixed on Kíli.

Kíli clasped his brother's shoulder reassuringly, barely swaying as he forced himself upright. "I'm fine. Winded only, and bruised." His face faltered somewhat, and he admitted, "Afraid, when the bridge came free and you were –"

A cheeky grin crept onto Fíli's face, twitching around the edges of his moustache. "Where you not occupied enough with the goblins to waste your time staring back at me? Keep your attention on the enemy, little brother. I can look out for myself."

Chagrined, Kíli ducked his head. He had heard admonitions of that sort before. Though he was the younger of the two of them, he had often been accused of being overbearing when it came to his brother. In the times before they began this quest, Balin had teased him, comparing him to a hen with only one chick. Dwalin, more raffish by far, jeered that he must think his brother a maid. Their uncle, never one to jest, had even more biting things to say about it, and more than once he had summoned Kíli in the dark before a hearth and spoken to him severely about the peril of binding himself so closely, of how little it befitted either of them as warriors, of the danger, the weakness it brought on them both.

"You do him a disservice," he had said one memorable night when, having been taken on a short trip to a village of men for trade, Kíli had perhaps made too much of an insult paid at the local tavern. "He is the elder. It is his duty to defend his own honor, and our people's. You cannot fight his battles for him."

It was true that Fíli was capable of defending himself, but Kíli knew his brother, and he simply didn't have the temper that Thorin and Kíli so strongly possessed . His was a quieter heart, and though a fearless fighter, he would endure a great deal more than Kíli was willing to permit. Moreover, that evening in town had shadows in darker times than Thorin knew. Fíli and Kíli had been born among the men of the wild, in the times before the Blue Mountains had become the new stronghold of the dwarves or Erebor, and neither loved them. Kíli had seen that dirty pig shove his brother, and –

In the end, it didn't matter what anyone said about this particular subject. Without the calm of his brother's presence, Kíli was an untamed whirlwind. Without his unspoken assurances, Kíli would be towed under by his insecurities. Without his shoulder against him at night, Kíli would not know any home. His hand clinched around Fíli's shoulder reflexively, hearing the leather creak, and his heart beat hard to feel his brother's living heat.

The pound of innumerable feet, the high-pitched squeal of the goblin hoard, echoed from the distance. The heads of the poor, battered company shot up, hearing the fresh approach. "We can't keep fighting like this!" Dori despaired, casting himself loose at last and joining Bofur in heaving Bombur to his feet.

Gandalf, clasping his staff in one hand and his sword in the other, answered, "Only daylight can save us. We must head to the Goblin-gate."

Thorin, as dirty and bruised as the rest of them, yet somehow still standing tall, strode to his side. "Show us the way," he said. Then, casting a look at his nephews, he spoke to Fíli. "Don't let him fall behind."

Fíli's grip on Kíli's arm intensified. "Never," he said, though Thorin had already passed beyond the range of hearing. There was time for him to flash a strained smile at his brother, and Kíli took heart even as he hefted his weapon once more and they set off on their final change through the twisted dark paths under the mountains.

Trusting his knowledge, the dwarf company followed behind the wizard as he parted the dark ahead with the fiercely bright _Glamdring_, the fuller white-blue with its own radiance. This time, Kíli refused to be parted from his brother. He and Fíli were side by side at the heels of the others, racing on, but even the combined cacophony of their heavy boots wasn't enough to cover the sound of the renewed pursuit of the goblins. Casting a glance over his shoulder, Kíli could see them swarming nearer like an oozing flood. He could smell them, a reek like a body split open by heat and torn by carrion.

He felt Fíli shove him forward. "Don't look behind!" he shouted, and Kíli applied his every remaining shred of strength to running.

"Here!" He heard Gandalf shout, and suddenly their way was checked. He saw the others stopped before a slender crack, high in the rock, and beyond it was a sight that made Kíli shut his eyes after so much time in darkness – it was pale daylight. There was a shriek as the door's guardians fell, black blood soaking into the ground. Then the dwarves climbed, pushing one another up to gain purchase on the gate of stone and force themselves through.

But the hoard behind them was coming closer. Kíli whirled alongside his brother to face them, weapons drawn. His brother's twin blades flashed out, and Kíli's own bow, which had until this time been useless in such close quarters, he now brought to bear. His whistling missiles found their meager mark, but it was a vain effort. He could not hope to hold back so many with arrows.

He heard the Goblin King's huge, echoing voice – "The gate! Shut the gate!" – and a horrible grinding filled all their ears. Gears began to move. The crack of daylight pinched, narrowing. Yet the last of the dwarf company was already disappearing through it. Knowing it was his turn, Kíli threw himself toward the wall below the door, scrapping his chin bloody as he scrabbled for purchase. He reached for his uncle's outstretched hand while Thorin bellowed for him to climb.

He could not reach. Kíli had a single moment to feel despair, but even as it flashed to life a shoulder slammed into his back, pushing him up against the rock. His boot scrapped, found purchase, and then Fíli straightened, all but throwing Kíli up into the waiting arms of his uncle. The tiny gap admitted him, and he swung around, grasping back through it, screaming his brother's name. Fíli's determined expression was on him, familiar even through the grime obscuring all their faces. With complete trust, he took a step back and made a running leap, his arms out.

Kíli caught them. He doubled over as he took Fíli's weight, the arms of another around his waist the only thing keeping him from being dragged back into the cave. The leather bracers around his brother's wrists were slick. He ground into them with all his strength, but even that was failing. He grunted, pulled, and called for help – _help_ – from anyone who would hear. Then the gears heaved, slowly turning. The door began to close the last precious inches, and Kíli screamed, caught between the gate with his brother still below.

It was at that point that everything slowed, and the sound went out. Only a roar was left. Kíli looked down on his brother, whose fair hair tangled around his neck and face. Blood was tattooed over his temple, and his jaw was a rigid line. But when he looked up at Kíli, his mouth relaxed into the smile he was more known for. He eyes spoke with a terrible finality. Kíli shook his head violently, denying it, refusing any farewell. Yet he could do nothing when, as the goblins finally swarmed around Fíli's legs, his brother let go and let himself fall.

"NO!" Kíli screamed, his voice breaking as he was pulled back from the door. It groaned as though it were the throat of the whole mountain, and then the gate closed entirely, leaving Kíli facing a solid wall of stone.

Thorin's arms were around his waist, a voice in his ear, but Kíli threw him off. He hurled himself at the door, agony pouring out from somewhere deep in his body, pounding with his hands as he screamed his brother's name. His fingers bled, but he could not find a seam. He plied all his exhausted strength, but the mountain was unyielding. Finally, he sobbed, pressing himself against the rock. Again, he felt his uncle at his back, felt other hands pulling him away. He fought, but they mastered him. Dragging him down the last corridor toward the daylight.

They left the dark behind, and Kíli still had to be dragged to prevent him from falling back. Even as the breeze finally cooled his cheeks, and the smell of pine caressed him as they left the close, damp caverns, he was senseless. Finally they reached a clearing, and, able to go no further, the company collapsed, breathing heavily.

Kíli was all but dumped on the ground, Dwalin and Thorin over him. "Kíli." His uncle knelt, clasping his shoulders, but Kíli shoved him away. Tears carved their way freely down his face, and a keening noise echoed in his ears which he soon realized was his own voice. Fíli.

He lurched upright, ready to charge back the way they had come, but the huge, corded arms of Dwalin enfolded him. He felt the man's coarse beard against the side of his head as the rumbling voice murmured, "Down, boy. Quiet now. It's over."

No. Dimly, Kíli saw the downcast faces of his kin, saw their grief and their pity. Bofur was gasping as he wept, and Ori had his face hidden in his hands, pressed fast between his brothers on both sides. The sight of Dori and Nori's protective stance, stolidly together in spite of the strained and tumultuous relationship they sometimes shared, broke something inside of Kíli. All the strength went out of his legs.

Fíli. His own older brother, whose arms he remembered carrying him when he was too small to walk. The one who had wrestled with him. Who spoke with him through his dark moments, when his heart quailed believing he had failed to meet another of his uncle's impossible standards. Who stood beside him, with his arm around Kíli's now taller shoulders, protecting _him _as Dori and Nori did now_. _Who had thrust his shoulder beneath Kíli's boot and passed him up the rocks to safety.

Kíli's stared out at nothing, his chest like a vice. Fíli was back in that terrible mountain, with the goblins. They would kill him, or worse. Bone-breaker. A rack of teeth. They had all seen the machines being wheeled in before Gandalf arrived. What would the Goblin King do with him, when all of his other prisoners had escaped? That Fíli had died at the moment of his capture would have been his only chance for mercy.

"Gandalf," he heard Thorin say, his familiar harsh voice gone hoarse. "Is there any way?"

The wizard's grey eyes were deeply lined with grief. "I'm afraid there is not, not without sacrificing the entire company. I'm sorry, Thorin."

A hand on his neck, baring down tightly. But not the hand of his brother. Kíli bowed his head and wished to die.


	2. Chapter 2

**The Price of Brotherhood (2/8)**

* * *

A terror was upon the goblins of the Misty Mountains as Azog the Defiler roared with rage, a sound that reverberated in the foothills and shook the very stones, sending small rocks pinging around their worthless heads. His pale arms rippling with muscle, and his terrible pink-rimmed eyes livid with fury, Azog towered above the gathering.

When word reached him that the goblins had snared his quarry, he had driven his forces over the pass, eager to have the heir of Durin's line at his mercy. Instead he arrived to find his promised prize gone, and his impossible anger was beyond the understanding of civilized men.

"You promise me the head of my enemy, yet you have nothing!"

The Great Goblin genuflected uselessly, his repulsive body a limp, sagging sack before Azog's powerful form. His voice high and strung out, he protested, "The wizard came with white magic. My whole goblin army –"

"Yes." Disgusted, Azog peered down at the cowering, inferior creatures, who squealed in fright under his very gaze. His warg, bristling with silver hair under the waning moon, bore her needle-sharp teeth, sending them into an even more pitiful show of cowardice. "Your whole army, and yet Thorin and his entire company still escaped from you."

Curiously, these words caused the group to stir with something other than fear. The Great Goblin's globular eye twitched, and he said, "There was one that didn't escape. We _crunched_ him as punishment for invading our halls, but out of respect for you, my Lord, we did not kill him."

Azog's simmering anger stilled for a moment, curious. "Not Thorin, of Thrór."

"No, but one of his people."

A hissing in the strange dialect of those creatures, and the mountain parted to admit a group of sturdy goblins dragging a body. They cast it at Azog's feet, where it lay, mostly naked and much bloodied, though not yet broken beyond mending. Azog put his hand beneath its chin and heaved it up so that the face was brought to bear. His fierce, otherworldly eyes narrowed. The goblins had hacked at their captive's beard and hair, leaving the creature looking shorn. One eye was entirely closed, but when the orc put pressure on its throat, the other winked, and some consciousness revived. A thin blue slit met his gaze – fixedly, if not openly defiant – and Azog saw the flicker of recognition, and of fear.

Not Thorin. Azog had an image of his enemy branded in his mind, and this one was too young – very young – with tallow-colored hair. But though most dwarves looked the same to him, Azog could detect a bearing of nobility when he saw it, and indeed with this one the resemblance to his enemy was too great to be overlooked, even in so destroyed a countenance.

His low rumble of laughter disturbed the gathering of goblins. Even his own orcs backed away warily as Azog tightened his grip around their captive. "You have much the look of Thorin, don't you, little one," he spoke to the dwarf, who offered a token struggle, though he could not even lift a cruelly twisted arm. The blue eye had no comprehension, however. He was perhaps too young to be acquainted with the Black Speech. Had he even laid eyes on the object of his king's quest?

Azog raised his eyes to the Great Goblin, who was looking back at him shrewdly, though still with great wariness. "We _squeezed _him, but he would not tell us the way his company was going."

"That is no mystery," Azog answered, but he was pleased. "Thorin will not reach his mountain. I will have his head before he comes within sight of Erebor." He threw the dwarf to his eager lieutenant, before stooping to lay a caressing hand alongside the blond head. Understanding the menace of that action all too well, the pack of warg-riders recoiled, but their leader merely leaned in to breathe very close to the dwarf's face. "Meanwhile, I will not be bored. Not since Thráin have I had one of the line of Durin under my hand. You don't understand me now, _khuzd_, but don't worry. Thanks to these _snaga_, your 'king' may be weeks ahead, and you will have time to learn my language very well."

He waited, his enormous hand pressing against his captive's neck and head, until the dwarf began to tremble. Then he signaled for his men to secure their prize and mounted his beast, his leering face set toward the rising sun where, all too near, his final vengeance would be achieved.

* * *

From the neck of an Eagle of Manwaë, Thorin's put his face to the sunrise and tried to untangle his black thoughts. Almost as they had left the roots of the mountains, an orc patrol had found them. They had fled to the edge of a precipice and there they had been given passage by these birds to a place named Carrock, many days journey to the east. It would save them much time, yet all Thorin could think of was that with every stroke of the great wings, he was being carried farther and farther from the goblin halls and from Fíli, who had been left behind.

His smoldering gaze found his other nephew, huddled on another back. The hobbit was with him, one small arm secured around Kíli's neck. With troubled eyes, Bilbo looked across the expanse, the wind teasing his hair. Their unlikely burglar had proved himself more valuable than Thorin could ever have imagined, appearing from nowhere in the midst of their battle on the cliff in time to wield his little blade with inexpert but nonetheless formidable purpose. He had been wrong to say Bilbo did not belong in the company. But that was a mistake he would have to mend another time, for now his thoughts were with Kíli.

They were set down on the Carrock, and there the company made their weary camp. There was no talk of moving, not this night. Óin and Glóin got a blaze going, and not even Gandalf opposed the light. The night was too dark already to face without even that dim illumination. Kíli put his back to it, far outside of the circle of warmth, and though Thorin longed to go to him – to feel for himself that he was there and alive – he did not think he would be welcome.

Instead, Thorin took his council with Gandalf, whose wizened head was bent low over the glow of his pipe. A cloud of smoke trailed from his lips as he sat, his arms wrapped around him as though cold. "I did not foresee this," he said finally, and sighed.

Heavy lines creased Balin's eyes as he slowly shook his head, his brother standing behind him with his huge arms crossed. Thorin himself had never felt so tired. His voice croaked in his throat. "The pass was more treacherous than we imagined. It could not have been known. All signs pointed to that road being safest."

And yet on it he had lost all but the last of his kin, his sister-son, whom he had fostered from youngest childhood. Thorin could see him now as the boy he had been, with his cheeks still bare and his tangled blond hair bound up in messy, adolescent braids – laughing with good humor, always with good humor, for Fíli had never been so impregnable as Thorin. He had always been generous, a future diplomat – the steady, obedient, willing son. Thorin could still see the glow of his eyes on the rare occasions when his uncle had braced an approving hand on his shoulder, the deep emotion buried in them when the songs of Erebor were sung.

Thorin covered his face with his hand.

"Couldn't we go back, Gandalf?" Bilbo asked. His feet were curled beneath him, and he had never seemed so small. His face held shadows that even the firelight could not account for. For some reason, he fingered his vest pocket. "I could go inside again, unseen. Maybe I could find him."

A brave proposal, but it was hopeless. Gandalf's expression softened, yet when he spoke it was to say what Thorin expected. "I wish it were so, but there are a thousand, thousand tombs in that mountain. More than you know. Its heart is riddled with worms. You would never come out, and Fíli would be no less lost."

The curly head fell, cast down. A bough on the fire popped and collapsed into ash. He murmured, "So there is no chance then? None at all?"

"That he's alive?" For a moment, the wizard's bearded chin rose, and he darted a look towards to far side of the rock, where a dark back was all that could be seen of the remaining heir of Durin's house, should Thorin fail. Heavy brows furrowed, and he grasped his teeth around the stem of his pipe. "We must hope that it is not so."

All at once the terrible weight came down on Thorin, the sure knowledge that, not only had he lost one of his company, but he may well have left Fíli in the hands of certain torment. That his nephew might at this moment be shrieking under the influence of the ropes and hooks they had only glanced... Sickened, he stood and abandoned the heat of the fire for the cold darkness. No one made move to follow him save Bilbo, but Balin's hand stayed him.

Thorin faced the sky alone, which was too clouded for stars. There, he struggled to master himself, to push down his grief. Behind him, cloaks were being laid out as the dwarves huddled together for a long, weary rest. A sharp breeze blew, and Thorin shuddered. The autumn was close upon them, and with it would come Durin's Day and their only hope for finding their way into the halls of Erebor. Only days ago, it had seemed like the only important thing, and even now his bones _burned_, longing with all his heart for home. But though the veil of this night, the goal seemed hollow.

Thorin took off his mantle and walked with it slowly towards Kíli. Without asking permission, he lowered it onto his hunched shoulders, a shield against the cutting wind. "It would be better to be near the warmth of others," he said simply, and when no answer came: "Kíli, you should not be alone."

Though well intended, his words trampled upon a spring, and smoldering eyes, dark as brands in the low light, suddenly burned into him. Kíli snarled, "What good do you think that would do? Should I go curl up with one of the others and forget who should be there instead – forget Fíli," he choked over his brother's name, but soon recovered, his voice rising even more angrily. "Do you think I can go to sleep and forget what they might be doing to him?"

Thorin had to stop the flow of speech before it tapered into hysteria. "Do you think it is any easier for me to think of it? Fíli was dear to me."

Kíli's brows sunk down low, his mouth trembling. He looked up at Thorin, stricken. "Was," he echoed. "You said 'was'."

From within, Thorin cursed himself for his gracelessness. He was a warrior, not a father, and ever since his nephews were small, it had always caused difficulties of this kind. For while in many ways the two had always been resilient and cheerful, the insecurity of their early years, the displacement of their race, and the sternness of Thorin's upbringing had still left some mark. Fíli had taken all censure silently, hoarding them up in private, while Kíli wore every wound on his gauntlet. Yet Thorin knew that both boys had suffered at one time or another for his inept handling, and never did he regret it more than at this moment.

Yet to make it right was beyond his power. Instead, he reached out to draw the fur lined cloak more securely around his nephew. When the lad didn't move, he cleared his throat and spoke, "To lose him is an enormous loss, but we cannot hope for more. The way back is shut. We can only go forward now."

"To Erebor," Kíli spat.

"Did you both not tell me, before we left the Blue Mountains, that you would die to fulfill our quest?"

Thorin remembered those days well, when the company was being decided. A large part of his heart, a part that was supported by Balin's council, had wished to leave Fíli and Kíli behind as Glóin had left Gimli. But another part , a part he could now recognized as being goaded by his pride, had exulted in the thought of reclaiming the throne of his grandfather with his own heirs at his side. He had wanted his exiled nephews to be the first to taste the joy of their reclaimed homeland. Never, even once, had he allowed himself to believe that he would claim it only after leaving behind a tomb. Or in this case, a bundle of bones, destined to be cast aside in an anonymous pile among the muck of that goblin din, unmarked, unmourned –

Thorin stopped his thoughts. His shoulders were like the boughs of a blighted tree. He could dwell on this no more. His hopes had already seemed to run out of him. Sleep. "Are you capable of keeping watch?" he asked, and ignored the bitterness in Kíli's dark eyes as he nodded. Thorin acknowledged him tiredly. "Then do so. You can wake Dori at midnight."

He trudged to the other side of the Carrock, as distant from the firelight and its company as Kíli, and lay himself down on the chilled stone, smothered with dark thoughts and, later – in the torment of his dreams – with screams that echoed in his nephew's voice.

* * *

Morning, and the faint, far off sight of the Lonely Mountain, resplendent in its white cap. Yet even that sight did not cheer the company. Their hearts were still too heavy, their wounds too fresh, and the road – with its leagues and leagues of wild country and all the dangers of the Greenwood still ahead – seemed very long.

"Though it's possible we're being hunted, we should still make for the Old Forest Road," Gandalf advised. "I'll see you there, if ever I can. Perhaps with the advantage the Eagles have given us, you will make it unmolested. You still intend to go on?"

The wizard spoke only to Thorin, who was braced upon the lookout while the others packed the meager belongings they had managed to salvage from the goblins. "To fail now, after so much sacrifice, would be worse."

"Worse than going forward, and risking the life of another of your friends?"

In the midst of the packing, Ori's high voice could be heard, meekly protesting as Dori and Nori bickered. Bofur was morosely binding up his pack, which he had somehow managed to keep on his back as they fled the tunnels, while his cousin sat nearby and spoke softly to him in nearly unintelligible ancient dwarvish. Óin and Glóin were tramping out the remains of the fire and clearing away the remains, but they paused often to look at Kíli, who was making secure his few remaining arrows, his battered bow. It was almost all they had retained, along with the heavier weapons they had carried out in their hands.

"We'll need to resupply somewhere, before we enter the forest," Thorin said by way of answer. "Everyone is hungry."

Gandalf stared at him without comment. Thorin waited, but there was no argument; from the very setting out of their quest, it had been clear that the wizard himself had some great stake in this undertaking, though it remained unknown. Finally, he said, "There are few dwellings in this land, yet with a little luck we may find shelter. To mend wounds."

That comment strayed too close to the raw, clawing pain over his heart, and Thorin didn't acknowledge it. He merely answered, "We'll go, then. As soon as we're ready to travel."

The last preparations were being made at that very moment. Bombur was being supported by his kinsmen, having wrenched his knee in the fall from the bridge. Dwalin hefted and stowed his war hammer, then pulled Kíli bodily upright. He said something to him, but the younger dwarf pulled free and made his own way to the path without waiting on the others. Thorin's body pulled towards him, unwilling to see him out of sight, but putting Kíli on a leash would never have done, even before. The only difference was that now, another tow head was not bouncing along beside him, to keep him safe.

"Did you speak to him last night?" Gandalf asked.

Thorin turned his face away, and gave the order for the company to depart.


	3. Chapter 3

**The Price of Brotherhood (3/8)**

* * *

An eternity of miles on the back of a reeking warg, hands bound tightly in front of him so that his fingers became swollen and dark. Crushed against an orc, its chin ducked down to hiss wicked things into his ear in broken Westron – _Not our favorite kind, no sweet flesh of elves, or men's crunchable bones, but I can still smell the hearth smoke on you, snaga; stronger than the stink of blood, strong than goblin filth. But not for long, no. We'll grind it off. Flay it off._

Consciousness faded in and out. Fíli's dry throat clicked; his eyes blinked feebly. All was fever and heat, and fierce, gnawing pain. Then the orc dug his nails in, and brutal clarity bubbled up for a time. The ride seemed to go on forever.

Sudden, jarring contact with the ground, and a dim awareness that they had stopped. Fíli tasted dirt in his mouth and struggled to turn, but there was no strength in him. Absurdly, he thought of his brother, with his messy, bedraggled hair that always needed combing. Laughing eyes that were dark unlike his own. A strong, safe hand.

The air blew softly on Fíli's face, cooling his cracked and bleeding lips. An orc stooped in front of him. "Is it parched?" the creature sneered. "Is it thirsty?" It barked an order, and two others heaved Fíli onto his knees, a thick arm wound around his neck. Then the orc pulled a flask from its belt. It bit the stopper and pulled it free with its teeth. "Go ahead and drink your fill, _khuzd_," it taunted, and shoved the spout down Fíli's throat.

A flood of foul black drink seared its way down. Fíli choked, but they held him fast. Drowned him, until they were satisfied. Then they dropped him on his twisted arm, and a mechanism of ropes and pulleys and shrieking voices exploded through his mind. Leaving him there, the orcs jeered, kicking him as they strode past.

The white warg came. From its back dismounted the huge, pale _uruk_ who had gripped Fíli around the neck and spoken Thorin's name. His identity had never been given, but as the cruel face looked down, his broad shoulders carved with patterned scars, Fíli knew him as though he had just stepped out of one of Balin's tales.

Azog.

With the bearing of a general, he glared at Fíli with eyes that seemed to be seeking out his tender spots. He grasped Fíli's wrists with a vicious twist, and the already fractured bits of bones ground together and splintered and pierced. Fíli's wheezed. If he'd had air to breath, he would have screamed.

Azog spoke in the harsh, black speech of the orcs. Fíli knew no words, but the inflection – slow, vicious, deliberate – told him all he needed. Nor did the perverse anticipation in the _uruk_'s eyes need interpretation. He was saying, '_This little pain is nothing compared to what is coming._'

Fíli knew almost nothing of torture. Once, in a tavern, there had been a ranger. He'd worn a dark hood and had a face that was haggard and aged, though he was not old. With his flagon cradled in his hands, he had spoken of it.

"To face torture," he told Fíli. "You must decide your goal. If your goal is to die quickly, then it must be done soon, very soon, while your mind is still your own. But if your goal is to survive… Well, you must decide that too."

At the time, Fíli had reached around his brother, who had passed out against his shoulder with a drunk, sleepy grin on his youthful face. He'd asked, "How do you choose?"

The ranger had looked at him shrewdly. "Haven't you already?"

Back with the orcs, Fíli felt a flash of clarity. His brother would want him back. Even if his body was broken to pieces, or if his mind was lost. If only to bury him, his brother would want him back.

Nearby, a brutish orc was stoking a bristling thresh of barbed tails, murmuring about whether dwarves would bleed red. In the background was the snarling of the wargs, drool dripping from their jaws. And looming over him, Azog's face – twisted and terrible – wordlessly promised to show why he was called the Defiler.

Fíli lifted his chin.

* * *

A week's weary travel from their descent of the Carrock, and still the company trudged over the rugged country between the base of the Misty Mountains and the poisoned Green Wood, which was now widely known as Mirkwood. They had been able to trade for rumors and meager supplies from the woodmen, but not for much – a dwarvish axe was valuable, but those they met possessed little besides the lumber they hewed, and Thorin's company could not eat splinters. They had to be content to part with much for little.

To Kíli, this seemed to be the new pattern of the world. No longer did the promise of Erebor burn like a candle in the velvet black of a deep mine. Neither did the stories that Balin whispered around the fire draw him. In fact, he could barely look at the wise old dwarf, or any of the others with their strong bonds of blood and fellowship. Still less at Thorin.

A dark, bitter seed had taken root between him and his uncle, and though he hated himself for letting it grow, Kíli couldn't bring himself to do away with it. Whenever Kíli's fingers felt the smooth draw of his bow, he remembered the gently teasing voice that had alternately goaded and encouraged him at his unusual choice of weapon. Whenever he let his pipe pass his lips, the smell and shape of it reminded him of its lost twin. It was the empty, cold earth beside him at night. The absence over his shoulder, where always his brother had shadowed his eager step. Guilt and grief crushed Kíli. And though he knew it was unworthy of him, his anger turned outward as well as inward; he wanted someone else to suffer as greatly as himself for every wraith-like reminder that Fíli was not there.

The miles passed, first scrubby vegetation, and then a growing number of thickening trees. Soon they were within a few day's march of Mirkwood, an enormous viridian shadow that filled the entire horizon. Kíli began to feel as though his limbs were moving without him telling them to stretch and bend. His sharp eyes scanned for hidden dangers, but all he saw was dull colors.

"You can't go on like this, laddie," Balin spoke to him across a fire one night.

Bilbo lifted his head from his arms, and looked at them both intently. His comfortable face had grown lean on the journey, his once fine clothes worn and stained with weather. Bofur's stitch work could be recognized on some of the seams.

The old dwarf continued, "You're taking a wound that was already grave and leaving it to fester."

Kíli turned his head sharply, refusing to meet the eyes of the company's counselor. "The wound is already mortal."

Leaning forward, Balin said, "You may feel that all is lost right now, but you still have family remaining, and we would not stand by while you let the ties that remain wither."

Kíli would have had to be a fool not to know that he spoke of Thorin. "And what should I say to him?" Kíli demanded. He threw a branch into the fire, where it exploded with sparks. "That I'm sorry? That all I can think of is that if I had been stronger, I could have pulled him up? That if I –"

"Thorin speaks just like that," Bilbo interrupted, and both dwarves turned to him. The hobbit lowered his voice and spoke in a facsimile of Thorin's deep cadence: "If I had I been more wary and not called a halt in that wretched cave; if I had I made certain they were passed to safety first. If I had taken Fíli up myself'."

Kíli felt clubbed. He asked, "How do you know that?"

The hobbit let his head fall to one side; shrugged. "He talks to me. Maybe because I'm not a dwarf, and he's not my king. He's haunted by the same doubts, Kíli, but it wasn't your fault."

Balin was looking Bilbo with an expression not unlike admiration. Kíli could sense the run of his thoughts; friends could come from strange places. Then he turned back to Kíli. "He's right, lad. It took us all a terrible long time to realize it, but this journey is a battle, and a battle always has causalities. Most of the time there's nothing anyone could have done."

As though to protect his vital organs, and especially his heart, Kíli curled over. "But I feel –"

"I know. But think of what your brother would say if he saw you like this. Fíli was devoted to Thorin, and the bond you two shared was stronger than any I have ever seen. He wouldn't want to see you against one another."

* * *

The next morning as they were preparing to move on, Kíli placed himself beside his uncle. Thorin had not spoken much recently, his presence as large as it ever was but much more subdued. He remained still as his nephew stood voluntarily at his shoulder for the first time in many days. The younger dwarf pressed his lips together, feeling the pain of absence more strongly than ever, yet remembering Balin and Bilbo's words. He still had this part of his family.

Looking dead ahead, he murmured, "I do not blame you."

A flinch in the great shoulders, imperceptible to all but one standing right beside him. Thorin turned to look at him, his eyes bright. Without any other words passing between them, he nodded.


	4. Chapter 4

**The Price of Brotherhood (4/8)**

* * *

It happened as they were crossing a river that had grown deep and dangerous with rain. Gandalf, who knew its nature, had lead them to a ramshackle house were an elderly ferryman kept a long length of rope stretched across, and a raft large enough for a heavy cart. He accepted their passage fee and they clambered aboard, hauling Óin, who muttered fearfully at the swift floodwaters.

They were at the far bank making their landing when they heard the first howl. It echoed across the empty stretch of unforested land, swiftly followed by pounding feet as beasts boiled over hill on the river's opposite side. Wargs, dozens of them, carrying orcs with scimitars and axes. All of them were calling out in their filthy language, a sound that brought the heart of every dwarf swarming into his throat.

"Cut the rope," Thorin heard himself say, and when they did not comply: "CUT THE ROPE!"

Glóin's axe came down, once, twice, and then the raft's lead-line severed, the craft banging clumsily into the shore and catching there, unable to be pulled back. The ferryman was rigorous with terror, but – thank god – he lived alone, for at that moment the thatch of his house was being set aflame, wisps of ember already drifting up into the evening sky.

Timidly but gladly, Ori asserted, "They can't get across."

And it seemed to be so. Cut off by the swollen river, the orc party cursed and sent their wargs to the edge, but when one tried to ford it, the beast was overcome and was carried away in the heavy swell of branches and debris. Thorin fought a feeling of triumph. He knew he orcs would eventually find a way.

Swinging around to the petrified ferryman, he demanded, "Is there a ford? Some other way they might pass through the river?"

Hazel eyes were stretched wide. Wretchedly, the man nodded. "An hour's journey by horse. That way."

Thorin nodded. An hour, and wargs would make the short journey even more quickly than a regular mount. He looked to Gandalf for counsel, but the wizard was staring fixedly across the river, his face set in a look of dread. Confused, Thorin turned, seeking what new turn had befallen them.

What he saw was beyond his belief. He stared, his mouth falling open, and heard himself say, almost in a whisper, "It cannot be."

"Uncle, what is it?" Kíli was beside him, his bow already strung.

However, it was Balin who answered; Balin who looked across and saw what Thorin had seen and gasped out the cursed name: "It's Azog, the Defiler!"

But though it seemed impossible, though every fiber of Thorin's being cried out that it could not be true, yet when over the rise that huge figure came, its pale shoulders silhouetted by the blazing hut, Thorin knew it could be no other. He rode on a warg as scarred and pitted as he himself, and the pink rings around his eyes were blood-red. His own warriors flinched aside as he made his way to the very edge of the river. There he dismounted and bore his teeth, looking directly at Thorin.

Then, for the first time in almost one hundred years, the dwarves heard the Black Speech, the corrupted language of the _uruk _and their kind. Azog opened his lips over pointed tips and rasped out a greeting: "Many years have passed since we met, _Thorin dur Thráin_. For an age, I waited for you to creep out of your hole in the ground. Now I will have my revenge. _For this_."

He thrust out this arm, and firelight reflected on black iron speared through flesh. The wicked prosthetic was in the place of the arm that Thorin had taken at the Battle of _Azanulbizar_, and though the words were filtered through the faded specter of long years, he understood. This was vengeance.

Without thinking, Thorin worked free the oak branch that had given him his name and now served him as a shield. It came to his hand instinctively, even as the rest of him still reeled to see this enemy whom he had thought dead. But – had he ever really believed that? Years of terrors in the night might serve as proof that there had always been a secret fear. And now that terror was before him once more, separated by a meager stretch of ground.

Azog laughed so loudly that it echoed in the hollows of the land. "I can smell your fear, heir of Durin. Just how Thrór smelled. Just how Thráin smelled. But –" He bowed mockingly at the river. "You have put yourself out of reach. I _could_ make a bridge of corpses to meet you in battle. But instead, you will come to me."

Gandalf flinched violently. It was clear that the words Azog spoke were not mystery to him. "What does he say?" Thorin asked.

"He says you will surrender to him," the wizard answered. _Glamdring_ glowed fiercely in his hand, and the blue light made Gandalf's face wane and ill. He said, "Thorin, something is wrong."

Thorin sensed it too. He remembered this foe from the battlefield at Moria, a raging animal baring a mace; a berserker. This smug comportment did not seem right at all, yet Azog appeared entirely relaxed. Only the taut cords of muscle in his neck betrayed his excitement. Thorin could almost see the throbbing artery there, and his sword arm itched to sever it. Only the sudden wet pull of the current on his boot stopped him as he was drawn to the river's extreme edge.

Azog watched him shrewdly. "Are you so eager to fight me, Thorin? Or do you see something familiar?"

The orc lifted his arm, revealing more of the thatched leather kilt he wore as his only garment. The thick belt was braced tightly, without ornament – or almost without ornament. In the wavering light and heat, Thorin thought he caught sight of cord and a glint of silver. He narrowed his eyes as Azog wrapped the object around his hand, caressing it with a broad thumb. Then, without warning, the orc tore it free and hurled it across the river, where it landed at Thorin's feet.

"Do you recognize my little trinket, son of Thráin?" Azog bellowed in triumph.

Thorin looked at the object that had been cast, and blood began to roar in his ears. A silver clasp, an heirloom of his own house. And bound by it, headed by a bit of scalp and blood, a woven golden plait.

With trembling fingers, Thorin picked it up. The soft braid caught against his calluses. It was matted, but there could be no doubt what it was that lay in his hand. It was hair. Hair the color of wheat ready for harvest. Thorin lifted his head in horror. No. It could not be. It was unthinkable.

Kíli's grip was fierce upon his, forcing open his clinched fist, then staggering back as he too realized what had been returned to them. With a ragged cry, his eyes flew across the river to the pale enemy who sat, drinking in their pain. Thorin saw his youngest nephew's mouth open, and lost all hope at the word that staggered out, destroying all doubt: _"Fíli."_

The pale orc leaned back against his beast and laughed. He snarled, "You left something behind when you fled the goblins, _Thorin_. But don't worry. I've brought it back to you."

A signal, and the seething bodies parted. From between them, an orc stalked. It had something slung over its shoulder, which it threw down before its master's feet. A maimed corpse, only recognizable by the matted fringe that remained, dark with stains but still pale. Azog picked it up by the scruff, and Thorin heard Dori's cultured voice rasp out, _"By Dúrin –"_

Kíli was choking, the sounds harsh in his throat. He reached out his hand toward the travesty brought before them as Azog let the head fall back, and the bashed, bloodied face was brought to bear. A face that Thorin knew, had seen at every stage of life. A face he had never expected to see again, alive or dead. Yet there he was in the hand of their greatest enemy, the killer of his grandfather and the murderer of his father.

Fíli.

In the broken visage, Thorin could see vestiges of him. He traced the bent limbs, the skin so hurt that its pallor could barely be seen through overlapping wounds. Even from so far, with their sharpness blurred by distance, Thorin could barely look at them.

The Defiler shook the limp body, sniffing contemptuously. "Mukgulkat!"

A skin pouch was produced, and while the dwarves watched helplessly, one of the orcs forced the spout down Fíli's throat. The response was instantaneous. From a lifeless hull, Fíli came suddenly alive, gagging and convulsing. His back arched against his captor, and he barked out a sound like agony diluted in anger, struggling for one frenzied moment. Futilely. For Azog's hand never left off its grip, holding the dwarf on his knees before his kin and his king.

It was too much for Kíli, who suddenly broke free of the paralysis that had seized them all. He was moving before Balin's warning could pass his lips, but Thorin had already lunged, grabbing his nephew and holding him back while the lad writhed and raged and _fought_ to plough himself headlong into that river. Thorin pulled them back to more sure footing, even as a piece of super-heated metal was set blistering in the core of his own heart.

Azog watched as he wrestled with Kíli, his teeth still resting in that simulation of a smile, but no longer with levity. Now his gaze was contemptuous, and arrogant. Looking down at Thorin, he drew his captive near and rested Fíli's cheek against his thigh. "Would you have him back, Thorin? I've enjoyed ruining something of yours, but _this_ –" He dug his claws into the tender jaw, drawing beads of blood. "_This_ is not my true prize. It's your head I want. And you will surrender it to me."

Even without full comprehension, Thorin heard and he knew. Helplessly, he watched that animal hold Fíli – loyal Fíli – and threaten even what remained of him with further harm. Unless he agreed to a trade. Suddenly, Gandalf's large hand was on him, like a leaden weight. He felt another gripping his belt: Bilbo. The rest of the company had also drawn near. He felt Dwalin's tall shadow, heard Ori muffling his sobs through a bitten lip.

Azog saw. His cruel blue eyes met Thorin's and seemed to read all that was there. "We will not cross the river," he rumbled. "You will come to me, Thorin, '_king'_. Then I will release this one. But take your time to decide. I don't think any of my orcs will mind one more night of sport."

At these words, he cast Fíli back into the waiting arms of his hoard, a captive of their wicked appetites and merciless whim. Thorin's hoarse protest choked in this throat. He couldn't tell if it was he or Kíli who jerked forward, or who held them back. Azog cast one more long look at his opponent of old, and then he turned his mount and retreated the way he came.

"Decide soon, Thorin," he said over his shoulder.

And then he was gone. And, once more, Fíli passed out of Thorin's sight to a fate worse than death.


	5. Chapter 5

**The Price of Brotherhood (5/8)**

* * *

"We cannot leave him with the orcs!" It was the first thing that passed Kíli's lips, and if his eye had been wild before, it was nothing compared to the gleam that possessed it now. He prowled the fringe of the group under Dwalin's watchful eye, taken up entirely with mania.

The dwarf company, Gandalf, and Bilbo had retreated to the nearest tree line beyond the river. Beyond it, the hazy, dying ashes of the ferryman's hut could be made out, and when the breeze blew from the west, it carried the faintest sound of warg, guttural speech, and scrapping metal. The orcs had not gone far.

Thorin was seated, hunched over with his hands entwined, his head bowed as though deep in thought. The eyes of his followers alternated between watching him and the scowling, pacing form of his nephew.

Finally, Bofur spoke, echoing Kíli. "The lad's right. We didn't know he was alive before, but now we do. We have to get him back."

"Easier said than done!" snapped Gandalf, whose mood had turned sharp and black. "Would you storm the camp, twelve dwarves and a hobbit against a score of mounted orcs? You would all be killed. And who's to say that Azog has even kept his word? At any moment, we might expect an ambush."

Since they'd stopped under the deeper shadow of the trees, Glóin had been fingering his bushy beard, his gaze far away. Now he raised his voice. "Risk or no, we have to try. He's barely of age. To think that I almost brought my Gimli –" He stopped as though he could say no more. His brother, Óin, clasped his shoulder.

"I'll go!" declared Ori. He raised his fists, muffled as they were by his ludicrous, overlong knitted sleeves. "I'll fight."

Dori cuffed him over the head. "You're not going anywhere!" His eyes were ringed with terror, and he gripped his younger brother by the hand, like a child. "You'll not get anywhere near that thing. Over my dead body!"

"But –!" Ori tried to argue.

"There is another option." Thorin's deep voice cut through all others, silencing them in a second. Even Kíli stopped pacing. "Azog made it clear what he wanted. A trade. If I go to his camp, he may release Fíli."

With a sound of disgust, Gandalf stood, casting out his arm as though just restraining himself from violence. "Save me from the foolishness of dwarfs. He's not inviting you to negotiate a peace, or even to face him in battle. He wants your head! And he'll have it too, if you're so foolish as to set foot in his camp." Stepping nearer, he quieted his voice and spoke more earnestly. "Your death will not save Fíli, Thorin. Orcs know no honor, nor are they bound to honor their promises."

Thorin looked back at the wizard and his heart ached in denial of this truth. His knuckles turned white as he increased his grip.

"What hope is there, then?" The despairing question came from Kíli, whose hands had dropped limply to his sides. He was shaking, his eyes overly bright. "You're saying we should leave him. Again, we should leave him. But I won't_. _I _won't_ –"

Since the foothills of the mountains, they hadn't seen the young dwarf break down, but now he did. The sustaining anger failed and Kíli sunk down onto his haunches and cried, his forearms covering his face. The painful sounds of mourning drove a spear through every heart. Bifur moaned wordlessly in sympathy. Others turned away.

It was Bilbo whose small voice spoke out of the oppressed quiet. "If we can't fight them, we'll just have to try something else. I could go to their camp and search for Fíli. They wouldn't see me."

Thorin lifted his head. This was the second time their hobbit had suggested something of this kind, as though he believed himself invisible to the enemy. Curiosity worming past even the heavy walls surrounding him, he questioned, "And how exactly do you expect to sneak past an entire pack of orcs without being seen?"

"I'm supposed to be a burglar, aren't I?" Bilbo's eyes shied away from his evasively. Instead, he turned to the wizard. "I'd have to be careful, though. The wargs...would they be able to smell me, Gandalf?"

The wizard gazed at Bilbo with eyes that smoldered like the embers of a lit pipe. "It might be done," he said finally. "With precautions, and if the wind is with you. It might be done."

A tiny pinprick of hope threatened to rise in Thorin's bosom, but he smothered it immediately, not daring to let it seize hold. "No." He laid down his final word. Almost without noticing, the halfling had crept into his confidence and his heart, and even the thought of him in the hands of Azog was enough to make his stomach heave with nausea. It absolutely could not happen. "You would be caught, and then we would have two of the company lost."

Glóin was shaking his head too. "Even if you did manage to sneak in and found Fíli, how would you get him out? With all the will in the world, I doubt you could carry him, and what about those hobbles?"

The entire company felt cast down at this reflection. They had all seen the heavy chains. And, though his title was 'burglar', none had any notion that Bilbo could open them.

"I could get them off."

Unexpectedly, Nori stood forward. His scallywag reputation made him somewhat of an outsider in the group, and he so rarely offered any commentary that it took everyone by surprise. The swarthy dwarf searched his belt, and came up with a long, thin piece of metal. At first with an abashed glance at his brother, but then with defiant confidence, he flourished it. "I've gotten past a lock or two in my time. If Bilbo thinks he can get me to Fíli unseen, I can cast him off, I promise you that."

The dwarf company looked around at one another, the plan forming behind their eyes. Thorin had to stop it before it could go further. "This is madness. The hobbit cannot do it."

The wounded look in Bilbo's brown eyes was enough to make Thorin feel a sharp stab, but he refused to let that pain turn to regret. He stood, his hands clasped behind his back. "I will not ask anyone to risk their lives. I alone will go –"

"I beg your pardon, Thorin, but I'm afraid we can't accept that," Balin interrupted, stunning Thorin to silence. Never had any of the dwarfs challenged him, not from the beginning. Yet his old friend said to him now, "When we chose to come with you on this journey, we knew that it would be dangerous. But you called for dwarves loyal to the line of Durin, and we came." He paused, glancing at the others, who all nodded agreement. Balin turned and looked directly at Thorin with his warm, wise eyes. "And if it's all the same to you, we would rather not lose our king before we even get to Erebor."

Something had lodged itself in Thorin's throat. It stopped his speech. He could not answer.

Taking advantage of his momentary silence, Bofur grinned cheekily. "After all, it would be a shame if you were killed by anything less than Smaug himself, eh? Now that would be a story worth telling."

"A bit depressing, though," Dwalin offered his opinion, fingering his axe. "To get all the way to the end of a quest, and then be eaten."

"Or _incinerated_," Bofur piped up again, winking at Bilbo. He wiggled his fingers. "Puuf."

Gandalf heaved a sigh, eyes rolling under his brows. "The sense of humor of dwarves. Our enemy stands at the door, and you still find time for joking." However, anyone could see that he wasn't truly cross. A liveliness had come back to his eyes. He took new grip on his staff. "If conditions were right, a rescue might be possible. If Bilbo could find Fíli, and free him with Nori's help –"

"And me," Kíli spoke suddenly. He stood, His face was as black as a thundercloud. Everyone saw his mulish, wrenched expression and did not dare contradict him.

"And Kíli," Gandalf acquiesced. "It would require that they escape detection entirely. A distraction would be needed – and not a clumsy show of force!" he snapped at Glóin and Óin, even as they raised their axes. "We would be entirely at their mercy if we charge into their camp. No, we need to outsmart them." He drew his cloak around him. "I need to think. I need –"

Even Thorin flinched when the wizard unfurled, suddenly seeming to grow twice as large, towering over the company.

"Fire!" he declared. "Nothing disorients a warg so much. You saw them on the other side of the river today. As shy as ponies. And the orcs won't like it either. It would be chaos."

"Fire?" Ori wondered, rubbing the side of his head. "But, how could we set a fire big enough to disrupt the camp without getting so close that they just cut us to bitsies?"

"Pinecones!" Gandalf pointed to the woods all around them, coniferous trees with large cones stuck in bunches. "Ori, Kíli, Bofur, up you go! Pass them along to the others. We need as many as we can carry. Where is that poor ferryman? Glóin, Óin – start a small fire, just bright enough to attract the attention of the forest creatures. This task is beyond our strength. We need help."

* * *

It was pandemonium from the first flaming missile that arched into the orc camp and exploded into a blazing streak of flame. Orange sparks hissed off the impromptu mortar shells like fireworks – undoubtedly helped by Gandalf's skill – igniting everything they touched. The wargs squealed like pigs as their coats burned, tramping some of their handlers, who were trying to respond to their master's call to battle.

Kíli, pressed down on his stomach in thick undergrowth, watched their panic and confusion grow. The heat touched on his face as the fire increased, and he could feel Nori's restless squirming, but it was as though his body had been separated from his spirit. Everything essential to who he was had already departed with Bilbo, who at this very moment sought the place where these animals were keeping his brother.

Since the moment he had seen that tangled braid of hair twisted in Thorin's hand, Kíli had been back in the goblin tunnels – careening. He had left Fíli there, and somehow the evil giant from Balin's horror tales had taken possession of him. How could he have allowed that to happen?

To prevent his hand from shaking, he dragged his sword closer to him through the soil, clenching his fingers around its pommel. His lunatic heart was beating so hard and fast it hurt. As an adolescent, he had been terrorized by the warriors' stories about what happened to those who fell captive to orcs. Even with an ale warming his belly and his brother's shoulder near his, they had made him shiver and poisoned his dreams. Now –

A whisper of grass close to their ears, and then Bilbo appeared as though out of thin air. His face was distorted, but he gestured for them to follow. By that time, most of the enemy had gone to the river, and with the burning and the shadows, covered by the screams of the wounded wargs and orcs, they were able to move unseen.

Then Bilbo hissed into Kíli's ear – "Here" – and he and Nori leapt as one, the blade of sword and axe bringing an undeservedly quick end to two guards standing hunched, watching the fires. They fell without even screaming.

On the ground by their feet, curled on his side, was Fíli. They had staked him there, iron pegs piercing through the chains and deep into the earth. Kíli fell instantly to his knees. He took Fíli's face between his hands and called his name, but there was no answer. He had to press his cheek right against his brother's mouth to even know he lived, for his skin was so cold.

Drawing back, Kíli almost wept to see the wounded scalp where Azog had torn the braid free, a spongy mess of blood. A long knife wound had been sawed across his face – fresh, only a few hours old. It traced the eye that was too swollen to open, and ran below the other, which was webbed with lines of pain even in this deep unconsciousness. A trace of wet, black orc blood was on his lips and teeth, and Kíli felt a surge of anguish and love, knowing that even bound like this and so hurt, his brother had still fought.

As for his body, Kíli could barely stand to look. The marks of the scourge were the worst; they drew his eye over the raw meat of his brother's back and sides, so wickedly gouged that there was no place to put his hand. Ugly wounds like bite marks on his shoulders, thick rails of bruising on his arms and legs. That he'd been beaten – oh, so badly beaten – was apparent, but there were also burns, weeping and yellow, blistering the tender skin under his arms. His chest yielded under the gentlest pressure. Worse, and worse. There was no end to it.

He heard Nori retching, and followed the older dwarf's gaze to his brother's hands. Then it was he who was fighting not to gag, for they were destroyed. The fingers of the right were so distorted and swollen that Kíli knew right away that at least some had no hope of being saved. Was there one bone they had not broken? One inch of flesh they had left untouched?

Kíli felt his cheeks grow hot and wet, and knew he could look no more at what the orcs had done. Lifting his chin, he saw Bilbo across from him. He met the Kíli's gaze, and there were tears streaking down his face.

Withdrawing the cloak they had brought and stretching it out by his brother, Kíli put every ounce of his will into the task at hand. "Nori," he said hoarsely. "The chains."

It took a long time. Orc craftsmanship was crude. The barely worked iron had cutting edges that left Nori's fingers slippery with blood, and the moving parts were ungreased and stubborn. Sweat dripped down Nori's long nose, his braided brows dampening, but then, finally, the heavy yoke released, and with utmost care and gentleness, the two dwarves moved Fíli's body onto the cloak.

Kíli though it heart might break when Bilbo took off his own jacket and cushioned it under Fíli's head. It was too small to do anything to cover his nakedness, still less to put the terrible wounds out of sight. However, the small dignity that it offered moved Kíli deeply.

The hobbit stayed beside them as Nori and Kíli each took their side and lifted. Between them, they made their way towards the greater darkness beyond the fires, for though the smoke they could see striding figures, the outline of weapons. Strikingly clear, Azog's voice roared up, and Bilbo's hand on his shoulder was the only thing that made Kíli realize he'd stopped, his head snapping around like a wolf scenting its quarry.

"We have to take care of Fíli," Bilbo whispered, pressing him forward insistently. He tugged. "Kíli, he's what's most important."

Nori chimed in, sounding terrified. "We have to go now. Kíli, they're coming."

And indeed they were. The fires had not stopped burning, but limping and wounded, some orcs were coming back. Kíli stepped up his pace, but their burden was awkward to carry. He cast a look behind him, and his heart froze to see one of the wargs staring at them, its eyes illuminated with fox-fire. Snarling, it bunched the muscles of its shoulders and prepared to spring.

However, it never got its chance to attack, for in that moment an enormous wall of black fur collided with the beast's side. Tearing teeth, and then the warg split open. The black animal reared up – thirteen, fourteen feet tall – and bellowed a hoarse roar so loud that it rattled Kíli's teeth. It charged again, its paws shaking the ground as it fell to all fours, and then Kíli heard the whinnying of horses. The high, murderous squeal of a boar. The scream of a mountain lion. The bawling of hounds.

In the following absolute bedlam, Kíli, Nori, and Bilbo ran, their precious burden slung between them. They carried it across the long, dark miles until they reached the ford, where they met the rest of the company and Thorin. His uncle's dark head came up as they approached, searching greedily and seeing Kíli alive, but his relief was clearly tempered with fear. After all, he could not help but see the cloak, hanging low.

Kíli answered his unspoken plea for reassurance with bleak, unblinking eyes.


	6. Chapter 6

**The Price of Brotherhood (6/8)**

* * *

By the grace of Aulë, they had survived their encounter with the Pale Orc. Thorin had faced him at the river, an indecisive skirmish in which the white warg had been slain, but his shield – the shield that had for so long been a symbol of his victory over Azog the Defiler – had been lost to a crushing blow.

There were other minor causalities. Ori had contrived to get himself an ugly knife wound when, ignoring his orders stay behind and guard the ford, he had rushed into battle when Gandalf's strange reinforcements arrived: a herd of animals following a great black bear.

Thorin could see Ori now, sitting on a section of log by the long table while Dori picked at his bandages, scolding under his breath about how it would scar – and how dare he be so stupid, and what was wrong with his head, and why didn't he listen – all while Ori's brow turned increasingly cranky and petulant. Their middle brother, Nori, was by them, wearing an expression that Thorin couldn't remember him having before. He leaned forward when Dori turned and began haranguing him too, seemingly content just to be near them.

Thorin, who had seen his shaken face when they returned with Fíli from the orc camp, could understand how he felt. He felt a sharp pain from his arm, which had been injured when his shield shattered, and grimaced. He could never repay Nori for what he had done, nor any of the others, who had all risked their lives.

"Are you hungry?" a voice asked, and Thorin turned to find Bilbo , holding a plate of cheese and bread, and the thick, rich honey Gandalf told them had few equals in its strengthening and restorative properties. Without waiting to be invited, the hobbit climbed onto the window seat and set the platter between them. He encouraged, "Eat, please. You've barely had anything since we got here, and you need it."

_'Here'_ was the lodge of Beorn, the terrifyingly valiant man who had come to their aid the night of the battle by the river. He was a skinwalker, descended from the first men to come down from the mountains before even Dúrin's time, and he had the power to turn into an enormous black bear. He had since welcomed them into his home, begrudgingly, at first – until he had seen Fíli. After that, he had done all he could to help them. His wonderful animals served them, and they were promised safety. No orc had ever set foot within the thorn-hedge, Beorn had told them with a fierce, angry eye – and none ever would. They could rest easy and tend to their wounded.

Wounded. The word set Thorin's teeth on edge, for such a word did no justice to the harm that had been done to Fíli. This thumb and forefinger tightened around the bowl of the pipe he had been holding in his hand, and the wood creaked.

"What will we do now?" asked Bilbo, looking up at him from below a fringe of curls, tousled with the passage of hands drawn repeatedly through them. There were stress marks trailing from his brown eyes, and Thorin reflected that, though he had seemed so ill suited to the wilds and the difficulties of a long journey, he had withstood them with admirable steadfastness. Certainly without him and the risk he had taken, they wouldn't be a company of fourteen once more.

Propping his pipe in his mouth, Thorin considered. The next leg of their journey would bring them to the perils of Mirkwood, a journey of many days that could only be made on foot. Beorn had said ominous things about the growing shadow of those woods. Spiders. A poisoned stream. Vicious animals. And at night, a darkness so complete that it threatened sanity.

Yet such a journey could never be embarked upon in the way he had planned with Gandalf. Fíli could not be moved. Though he clung to life, he burned with fever. The many cruel wounds wept with infection. And he would not wake, except to moan and mutter and sometimes to cry out his brother's name.

Thorin withdrew his pipe, the sweet smelling smoke stinging his eyes; they watered. He did not know what to do for Fíli, or even yet for Kíli. To Bilbo, he answered, "We'll stay here for now. Bombur can still barely walk, and Dori won't let Ori set foot over the threshold. We all need time...to recover."

From another, Bilbo's look of deep sympathy would have been offensive, but Thorin couldn't bring himself to be angry. Not even when the hobbit said, "You should go sit with him, Thorin. Maybe he can hear you. And even if he can't, Kíli is about done in. He's slept even less than you."

Though it was only the gentlest censure, it still bit deep. Thorin turned away, absently tapping his pipe. "You saw him today?"

Bilbo placed a hand on his arm. "They need you."

Reluctantly, the dwarf lord heaved himself up, leaving Bilbo to pass through the wooden lodge. The huge firepit was roaring as always, trailing a sweet smoke that hung with an aroma like apples over the entire room. He passed Balin, who was looking decades older than he had only weeks ago. Stalwart Dwalin was beside him, an untouched tankard of mead by his hand. The dark eyes of both warrior brothers followed him as he made his way to the more private parts of the home.

A long hall, and then a door that was wedged open a fraction, so that light shown through – and sound. Thorin recognized Bifur's strange, hoarse voice droning on and on in his distorted version of the dwarves' ancient tongue. Bifur looked up when he came in. He was sitting cross-legged at the bedside, where he had kept a very constant vigil, unaffected by the sight of the gristly wounds or the sounds and smell of suffering.

None of them understood his diligence, but Thorin was grateful. He nodded to the older dwarf, his eyes glancing off the wicked axe-head that had healed inside his skull. Somehow its proof that impossible, maiming injuries could be survived was no comfort.

Bifur left without being bidden, and as Thorin approached he saw the dark head of his younger nephew, stooped over the pallet from which he had refused to be parted. His hand was laying on the clean sheets, very near his brother's.

Here, gorge rose in Thorin's throat. Fíli's hand. Though every possible method had been tried to restore them, two of the fingers had turned black and dead. Just last night, Beorn had cut them away, and now there was fresh blood on the bandage. Thorin still remembered the great, dark man approaching him for permission: "Is it his sword hand?" he had asked gruffly.

Struck down so low, feeling as though something of himself was about ready to be cut away, Thorin had barely been able to say, "He wields duel blades."

Feeling each of his one hundred and ninety years, Thorin lowered himself down. Fíli's back was to him, and his bright, clean hair was spread on the pillow, the only part of him Thorin could bear to touch. He stroked it away from his nephew's brow, feeling the scorching heat. A bowl of water stood nearby, and he took up the soaking cloth and wrung it out so he could lay it on the flushed neck.

His hair was so short now, Thorin thought as he moved it out of the way. Óin had evened it as he could, but it had suffered much. Fíli looked more like a child now than he had in many years. So young.

"We were still living outside the Hills of Evendium the last time it was so short."

Startled by the sudden break in the silence, Thorin's chin jerked up. Kíli looked at him with dull eyes that were underlined with deep purple pockets, like bruises. Listlessly, he brushed his brother's bangs with his fingers.

He continued, "Before you brought us to the Blue Mountains."

"You were only nine," Thorin spoke. "Do you remember it so well?"

"I remember." Tiredly, Kíli passed his hand over his face. "In those days, it was just me and Fíli."

It had always been difficult for Thorin to hear them speak about those times, before Thorin had stopped warring and sought a home for his exiled people. After his father and his grandfather and his brother had all died, only then had Thorin returned and taken responsibility for his sister's sons. But by then, much damage had already been done.

"Your mother did the best that she could. Grief –" Thorin paused, wondering how he could speak of grief here, like this. He finished, "Grief affects all people differently."

For a time after that they sat without speaking, giving Thorin time to relive the night when they had arrived at Beorn's house and all the adrenaline of battle was erased by the horror of Fíli's condition. He remembered the frantic work to nurse the most grievous wounds, to brew teas that would speed the mending of invisible hurts within. Innumerable bones set; the impression of terrible violence worked on one who could not possibly bear any more. And – over all – the eerie quiet, because Fíli should have been screaming, but he did not. He remained deeply unconscious, out of the power of even Gandalf to recall him.

"Has he woken at all?" he asked. "Has he spoken any more?"

"He mutters words I don't know sometimes." Kíli looked haunted by the recollection. "Gandalf says some of them are fragments of orc language. Other times he says things in elvish - _tua amin, tampa, n'uma_..."

"Elvish?" Thorin looked up sharply. "Fíli doesn't know elvish."

The younger dwarf ducked his head, chagrined. He confessed, "That night at Rivendell, when you were speaking to Lord Elrond, Fíli and I went wandering. We were curious. Houses open to the air like that, and the elves themselves, and – Well. We ran into these two, brothers like us, and we spoke to them for awhile. Elrohir let me try one of their bows, but you know Fíli. He was more interested in their talk. All Balin's lessons about diplomacy and statesmanship rubbing off, I guess, and..."

His voice thickening, Kíli stopped. Thorin bowed his own head. Before, if he had known his nephews had been frolicking around Rivendell having conversations with random elves, he would have been angry. Now, thinking about what Kíli had said of Fíli's curiosity about their language, his easy nature with others, his desire to please – now, he only ached.

He cleared his voice. "So he speaks elvish words sometimes. Why?"

"Gandalf says that orcs understand elvish speech," Kíli answered. "He says maybe Fíli thinks he's still with them. That he might be trapped inside, not knowing we got him out."

Bleak, bleak. Thorin could not dwell on it. "What else did he say?"

The wavering report began: "Beorn gave us honey to put on his back. He says it may help as the flesh grows back, but he's worried the scars might be crippling. This knife wound," he traced it with his finger. "Gandalf says It was a poisoned blade. Even now, it won't close. And his hands –" He closed his eyes.

Thorin gently stopped him. "I know, Kíli."

A grieved cry choked it's way from his nephew's throat, and he covered his face. "Uncle, what are we going to do? He's never going to be the same. He'll never be _whole _again, and not just his body. I'm so afraid for his mind. What if –"

Though the sun shined through the tall, narrow windows, Thorin didn't know that he had ever sat in so deep a darkness. He wanted to reach about and draw both his lads close, like he had when they were still small enough to fit under his arms. But the gap between him and Kíli yawned, and Fíli he could not even touch without causing pain...

Abruptly, Thorin stood.

"I'll come check on him later," he said gruffly, and tried to ignore Kíli's weary eyes as they followed him to the door.


	7. Chapter 7

**The Price of Brotherhood (7/8)**

* * *

Gandalf found Thorin in the deepening darkness beneath the roof of Beorn's porch. He sat himself down beside one of the pillars carved from an entire tree, and spent a long moment measuring the stars as they winked, one at a time, into existence. Finally, he spoke. "Thorin, have you given thought to what you will do next?"

The dwarf lord sat in a quiet study. He had barely moved from this spot since abandoning his nephews in the sick room, feeling their need at his back but unable to answer. He looked at the wizard, "What would you have me do?"

Gandalf shook his head. "That is not for me to decide. From the beginning, I have tried to advise you, but your choices must be your own."

Thorin looked down at his hands. There were scars – white nicks left by sharp metal, old burns from the forges he had worked all his life, hoary calluses from the handles of tools as much as weapons. He had been a prince, but he had also been an outcast. A warrior, and a blacksmith. A leader, and a parent. His history was in his hands, the flesh of his people. Every effort had been to find a place for them. It had been his passion and his obsession. Erebor. It still called to him, even now.

"I do not know what to do."

The painful admission drifted out into the evening sky, swallowed up in the shadows. Gandalf looked saddened. "I'm sorry that it came to this, Thorin."

"Can you not help him any more?"

"I have done everything in my power to help Fíli," Gandalf answered. "However, certain wounds have a shadow over them. Sometimes they never heal at all."

These words renewed the pain in Thorin's chest, and his arm ached, throbbing with his heart. He murmured, "Will he live?"

A sorrowful sigh. "That is hard to say. I fear he may slip away, past recalling. If so, he may sleep for years, lost even as he lives. Or he might fight to return to us. But even if he does wake, the road to recovery will be long, longer than perhaps you know. His future is very clouded. All that I know for certain is that he needs greater help than we now possess."

Thorin looked up sharply. Instinctively, he knew that Gandalf was indicating more than he said. "Speak plainly."

The wizard narrowed his eyes. "Fíli's condition is grave, and while Beorn has some familiarity with the healing arts, he uses them more to ease the birth of his animals, to sooth scratches and splint bones. Óin, too, was an apothecary and not a healer. However, there is another option."

Here Gandalf paused, his eyes becoming sharper and more focused. Thorin knew that whatever he said next would not be welcome.

"Elrond is the greatest healer known to me, but Rivendell is many days over the mountain and Fíli would never survive that journey. Still, there are others with gifts almost as powerful who are nearer at hand. You could ask for their help, and they might answer."

Sensing where this was going, and growing angry, Thorin asked, "Of whom do you speak?"

Gandalf's eyes were unyielding. He refused to look away. "The folk of Lothlórian are practiced at pushing back the shadow. They, unfortunately, have had practice in this kind of healing. They might be able to draw out the poison that Azog will have left in his soul."

"Elves? You would have us go to the elves?" Darkly, Thorin said, "I tried that before. Should I beg them again, just to have them turn their back?"

"They are just as threatened by Azog's return to the lowlands. They are allies, Thorin."

"Your counsel reeks of elven influence. Do you care anything for my people?"

"Care!" With a voice like thunder, Gandalf stood. His eyes were wild under his bushy brows. "Thorin Oakenshield, from the beginning of your quest, I have done everything in my power to help you succeed. I was friend of your father, and his father before him. I watched over you even before you knew me. And you ask if I care for your people? I would have you back on your throne, and see a great number of other problems solved besides. After all, there's a great deal wrong in the world apart from the lost treasure of dwarves."

"You mock me."

"No!" Gandalf said at great volume, but his voice swiftly quieted. "No, Thorin. But I do grow tired of trying to help someone who would turn away every friend and make him an enemy."

Thorin's lip curled. Since his youth he had always been hot-blooded, and bitterness had done nothing to make him more patient or tolerant of the judgment of others. He ground out, "What do you want me to do?"

"A choice stands at your door. The Day of Durin will be upon us soon, and with it the surest chance of finding this hidden door the map speaks of. But only behind us, with the elves, _might_ lay healing for Fíli. You cannot accomplish both yourself. You will have to chose."

A great divide opened in Thorin, his very being raging to be so torn in two. His home, Erebor, was in sight. To turn away from it was against the fiber of his nature, his very blood. He had fought in wars all his life to reclaim the strongholds of his fathers, and yet never had he succeeded. To give up now... His feet were loud against the wood floor as he paced.

Gandalf looked at him as though his every thought were known to him. "Thorin, though I know we both feel the pressure of time, and fate seems urgent, but I must ask you: Would it be so terrible to retreat for now, and come at Erebor again when the company might be mended? Your people have lived this long in exile; they could survive another year."

The memory of exile was like the a knife twisting inside. Like the red-hot metal of the forge, anger enflamed him. "My people are slaves. They are forced to serve unworthy men, to supplicate and beg and toil for all but nothing. We were once kings, rich beyond all imagining!"

"And if you go on, you may regain your jewels," Gandalf said. "But some things can never be reclaimed once they are gone. Is treasure really worth a life?"

The question provoked something deep and dark in Thorin, a greed that echoed the same madness that had seized Thrór so long ago. Beyond reason, and certainly beyond fear of who might overhear, Thorin raged, "One handful of my grandfather's gold would be worth a life!"

It was the faint sound of horror that brought him back to himself. As one, both he and Gandalf looked to the doorway where Kíli stood, his face wane. How had he come to be there? Had it been a desire to mend with his uncle's company? Had a longing for fresh air finally overcome him? Thorin would never know, for it did not matter. The words were already said. They hung in the air, thick in the sudden silence.

"Kíli," Thorin said, distraught. He stepped toward the door. "Kíli, no. I did not mean –"

However, his nephew had already disappeared back into the darkness of Beorn's lodge.

* * *

_Kíli was running, barely able to hold his sword. A bridge went out from under his feet, while the shrieking voices of goblins echoed from every niche under the mountain. He careened, he fell. Every muscle in his body strained to stop, but momentum pulled him on, ever downward. He fell until the mountain caught him, and then he was scrabbling to reach the gate high in the face of the rock. He could not reach, yet he could almost feel the hot breath of the goblins as they swarmed behind him..._

_"Don't be afraid of them, Kíli."_

_Sick with pain, his cheeks wet and dirty, Kíli turned and came face-to-face with his brother. Fíli gazed at him calmly, his braided mane of hair neat and well-groomed. He smiled at his little brother and put out his hand, thumbing away the tears. His expression was the gentle one of their private moments when they were not the heirs of Thorin, bearing the burden of outcast dwarven nobility, but just themselves._

_High, squealing voices filled the background, and Kíli snatched at his brother, desperate to hold onto him, to keep him safe. But Fíli just pushed him back to arms length with inexorable strength. Then drums began to throb from far off, but not the drums of goblins. Kíli's heart stuttered with every beat. Orcs. He clung to Fíli's sleeves, seeing the fear that was echoing in his brother's eyes._

_"Go," he said, pushing Kíli a little away. "They're coming."_

_In his minds eye, Kíli saw the twin corpses of the orcs he had killed; their dark, leathery skin, their teeth, jagged against their lips. Their cruel hands. Shaking his head violently, he cried, "Fíli, I can't. Please, let's leave this place. Let's go before they arrive."_

_Haunted eyes, clear as the lake of Evendim, gazed at him. Kíli saw his brother tremble. "It's too late. They have me already."_

_"No," he denied. "No, you're with me. Hold my hand, and we'll go."_

_But the image of Fíli was agitated now. He waned, his checks become stark lines against his face. A bead of blood oozed slowly down his forehead. He no longer looked at Kíli, but away into the dark, with the drums. He gasped. "Kíli!"_

_"Fíli!"_

_Reaching for him, Kíli found himself separated by a great darkness. He flung himself at it, but it only widened. He pleaded for mercy, but no one answered. A great figure stepped into the space behind Fíli's shoulder, and rested a pale hand on his shoulder. Teeth like sharp mountains, grinning._

_Fíli and Kíli opened their mouths as one._

* * *

Twin screams woke the house of Beorn.

One was shrill and filled with panic, the other raw and hoarse, scourged by pain and terror. Thorin knew them both, and he flew from his pallet. When he reached the sickroom door, Kíli's head bolted up, beseeching him with wild eyes. His hair was disheveled as though he had just woken, and he pleaded with a voice Thorin remembered from his childhood. "Uncle, please, help!"

The reason for his panic was clear: On the bed, Fíli writhed under his brothers hands. He twisted, endangering the painstaking work that had been done. Throwing himself toward the bedside, Thorin was forced to put pressure on only partially closed wounds, on mending tendons and bones. The fabric beneath his hands was damp, and still he held on to his senseless, thrashing nephew.

"I woke up to him screaming," Kíli said. "I've called to him and called to him, but he doesn't hear me."

Thorin heard the hopeless guilt in Kíli's voice, yet he didn't have the luxury to comfort the one when the other was in such great need. "Fíli!" he spoke, but his voice failed him. Clearing his throat, he deepened his words. "Fíli, stop this. Lie still, Fíli."

Something of the command must have reached down deep, because the bucking ceased. Then the faint outline of blue eyes reached Thorin, and he saw his nephew for the first time since the wall had slid shut between them in the Misty Mountains.

"Fíli," Thorin said with relief.

The young dwarf's chest was heaving. Sweat was beaded down his forehead and neck. With fingers that could not close, he pawed at the loose sleeves of Thorin's nightshirt. "Uncle," he wheezed. "Uncle, uncle, uncle."

The weak, lost voice shattered Thorin's hope. Aghast, his soul crumbling, he answered. "I'm here." Gently, he pressed his hands to either side of Fíli's face. "I'm here, son."

Fíli's eyes were glazed, snarled as a briar; the pupils were blow wide. Briefly, his tongue darted over chapped lips. "Where's Kíli?"

Eager to be recognized, Kíli took the poor, maimed hand gingerly in his own. Tears streaked down his face. "I'm here, Fíli."

Thorin and Kíli leaned closer, waiting for any reply. But Fíli's eyes rolled back and closed, so swollen. He whispered hoarsely, "It's dark."

His heart breaking within him, Thorin stroked his nephew's dampened hair, wanting only to make contact, to draw him back. To see those eyes open again and know him. He called Fíli's name.

Fili stirred, but a fearful, glazed look had come over him, and a low sound, too cruelly small and humble to be called anything but a whine, wormed its way from between his clamped teeth. He whimpered, "He's coming,"

Thorin's grip intensified, heedless of the bruises. He hissed, "No, Fíli. You aren't with the orcs. You're safe with me. He will never hurt you again. Kíli and I are beside you. Can't you feel us?"

The maddened energy that had briefly seized Fíli was burning out. His muscles, so tense only moments ago, became limp once again. His head lolling back, Fíli looked directly at Thorin. A tear traced his cheek, and he whispered hoarsely, "They hurt me."

Complete devastation. Kíli bowed over until his face was hidden in the sheet beside his brother's neck. He wept, and Thorin put his arm around him without thinking of it. His eyes cast about, seeking help form a place unknown, and he suddenly realized that Gandalf was there. He had a cup, and, seeking Thorin's permission, he gently lifted Fíli and coaxed him to drink, murmuring softly in a language Thorin did not know.

Hearing the sound of a board creak in the hall, Thorin looked to the door and saw that the company had gathered there, looking on with horror in their eyes. Bifur had his arms thrown around his cousin's neck and appeared to be nearly strangling him. Nori looked openly devastated. He groped for Dori, who didn't even hesitate before gripping his hand. Thorin looked at them and couldn't even find it in him to be angry that this moment had not been private. Pale with weariness, he merely shook his head and watched Balin herd them away.

Thorin turned back to his family, to Gandalf who sat upon the bed, almost rocking Fíli who looked like a small child in his arms. Fíli's eyes were still open, but they were blank, unseeing. He started out at nothing that anyone else could see, and breathed.

"Thorin," Gandalf said.

Thorin looked to him as one looked to his last hope, but no comfort was given. Beseechingly, he held out his arms, and his nephew was very gently passed to rest against him. Thorin held Fíli's head under his chin, stroking his hair over and over. Kíli pressed against his side, his fingers gripping through his shirt. Thorin sat with them, while everything in his mind and heart turned over and over. Images of his mountain, his boyhood, his sister.

When the decision came, it was surprisingly easy.


	8. Chapter 8

**The Price of Brotherhood (8/8)**

* * *

Twelve months had passed since the Company of Thorin had passed through the goblin tunnels threading the inner recesses of the Misty Mountains. One year since the stone gate had shut, cutting off all light for two brothers. Eleven months since a lost member had been reclaimed, if in body only. Ten since Thorin had let go of his grudge and asked for help. Eight since the journey had been made to the wood of Lothlórian, where many things had been mended.

Standing at the edge of a platform high above the ground, Thorin looked out at the new growth of spring on the delicate silver branches, and felt no greed seeing the soft golden buds. A gentle rain had fallen, and beads of moisture were strung like veils of diamond over every surface. Thorin listened to the quiet sounds of morning, the cool light under the forest eaves, and his heart was at peace.

"It is still strange to me, seeing a dwarf so composed in the trees."

Recognizing the voice, Thorin turned to Elrond, who had approached with the silent footsteps of all his race. When the dwarf inclined his head, the elvish lord joined Thorin at the rail. They stood for a moment in comfortable silence, accustomed to one another by now, for Elrond had passed over the mountain as soon as the pass thawed.

Thorin, who now knew the perils of that journey very well, had struggled to express his gratitude ever since. "I have not thanked you for what you've done, not well enough."

Elrond possessed dark eyes. They were a little easier to read than the ethereal stare of his Silvan brethren. Now they softened, not with satisfaction to win these words, but with compassion. "How could I not come? When your message arrived, my sons would accept nothing else. Your nephews made a great impression on them, and they were remembered well. Elrohir and Elladan were grieved to know that they had come to such harm."

"Yes," Thorin grunted.

Elrohir had been another blessing. While his twin had stayed behind to steward Rivendell, he had traveled with his father. No other had been able to coax Kíli from the infirmary, or convince him to take rest, or to ease the strain that he bore with his whole heart and soul bent on his brother's recovery. Even now, Thorin often saw them, two dark heads walking among the quiet paths of Lothlórian. It was yet another debt he owed.

Something of the darkness in this thought must have touched his brow, for Elrond spoke quietly, "You owe me no greater measure of thanks than I owe you, Thorin. Azog is a terrible foe, and no less dangerous to our people than yours. We found the remains of his camp on Weathertop, very near my home. And now he is abroad in the lands surrounding the Auduin, between the two great elven nations. Your warning may have saved many lives."

"I wasn't thinking of that," Thorin admitted. He remembered holding his broken nephew in his arms, and thinking that he wanted no treasure apart from his life. That no grudge he bore was worth holding, if he might be well again.

Elrond nodded. "Perhaps not. Yet you acted as a friend, and you gave up your quest. It isn't something that I though you capable of before. But things are different now."

Thorin's head came up sharply. "Different?"

"I did not support your quest," said the Lord of Rivendell. "Even Gandalf's certainty could not convince me. I looked into the future and saw great death and sorrow in the reclaiming of your mountain. The gold-lust of dwarves is well known among elves – perhaps even exaggerated. I admit I felt you were obsessed, and that obsession brought me concern."

Obsession. Thorin had been obsessed with Erebor since the moment he had been driven out of it. Even in flight, he had looked back at the Lonely Mountain and made an oath to take it back. Sometimes, in his dreams, he still believed he had made a different choice and gone on to reclaim the throne of his grandfather. Always in those dreams he left behind a corpse with blue eyes and woke up panting, dripping with sweat.

Haunted, uncertain why Elrond was speaking of these things, he said, "You doubted me before. Today you don't. What does it matter now?"

Elrond continued, "My people may not understand the love of precious metals, but I have been speaking with Mr. Baggins, and he has helped me understand some things that I did not see before." A small smile graced his lips, and his eyes grew fond. "A strange race, halflings. They love simple things, yet maybe it gives them a particular gift for seeing what others overlook."

Perplexed, Thorin just stared, waiting.

Elrond went on, "For we do understand the longing for home, Master Dwarf, and the need for a homeland. Moreover, you have proved that your family is more important to you than gold or a desire to rule. And so we are willing to come to your aid."

Thorin could not help but raise his voice. "Aid!"

"Yes," Elrond said. "Celeborn had agreed. When the time is right, a contingent of Lothlórian guards will escort you to the Forest River at the edge of the Greenwood. As it turns out, the Old Forest Road is encumbered – the marshes on it's far edge have expanded and become impassable. Had you gone that way, you might have remained lost forever, or starved. The river is the only sure path now, and Thranduil has granted you safe passage."

Dazed, Thorin leaned against the rail. "Thranduil."

A sadder look passed over Elrond's face now. "Yes. I believe that for many years he has regretted his choice in turning from his dwarf allies when Smaug attacked. However, you would have waited a thousand years before he corrected that wrong. I'm afraid some Elves are no less subject to pride than those of any other race." This, he said with a keen look at Thorin himself. "Yet, I think it humbled him that you, of all dwarves, made the first move toward reconciliation – humbled, and shamed him. He has granted you all rights to travel through his domain, and he has promised that his forces will join your company and any others you're able to raise. There has also been word from Lake Town. They will help you take back your home, Thorin."

Impossible. Unimaginable. Thorin's hands twisted around the Lothlórian balcony. He thought that he had lost all hope of Erebor when he had abandoned the path to Mirkwood and retreated here, at the mercy of those he hated to save his nephew's life. That it might be reclaimed…

Yet there was one thing that this unexpected blessing could not mend.

His throat closed almost past speech, Thorin asked, "What of Fíli?"

There was a shift in the silken garment as Elrond moved. "You know that the gravest wounds have long since knitted," he answered. "And he has a strong heart. His love for you and his brother is powerful. I have hope that he will be, if not whole, than at least as well as any who have passed though darkness and survived to continue living."

"He'll still be a warrior?"

Elrond nodded, "Perhaps not as before. The scars, and the old pains, will make some ways of fighting difficult for him. But he will learn new ways. And he will live, Thorin."

The dwarf lord, destined from his birth to be King Under the Mountain, bowed his head. Finally, his home stood within reach, but the price had been so high.

"Do not despair, Thorin. It seems to me that you were meant to pass this way."

"Do elves believe that fate can be so cruel, and demand so much?"

Elrond answered, "We believe that great good can sometimes come from great evil. Do you not?"

Thorin considered what he believed, tracing in his mind the long road from the door of Erebor to the field of battle before Moria, then to the West and the first time he had wrapped his hand around those of his nephews. To the Blue Mountains, and exile. The heat of a forge, and finally, a fading but still smoldering hope which Gandalf had enflamed. To a comfortable hole in the ground, with smoke rising out of its chimney in a gentle curl, harboring the unassuming soul who was destined to become their fourteenth – destined to save his heir, and destined to be his friend. To the Misty Mountains and that great loss. The horror of rediscovery, of recovery, of despair in a broken body and a broken heart. To this new allegiance, this new hope. Allies and sword arms and resolve to bring his people home – Home.

Thorin swallowed, feeling the prickle of tears in his eyes. He did not say anything, but his heart spoke the answer, and Elrond knew.

* * *

Kíli looked up, hearing the sound of footsteps moving on the floor above. A slow, measured tread to the left, where the dresser was, then back again to the bedside where boots had been laid. Quiet as they were manipulated, fumbled, mastered. Kíli listened until the sounds reached the staircase, and then he went and stood at the base of it, though in this case his help was not needed. Fíli reached the bottom unaided, and when he found Kíli's eyes, he smiled.

"What? Have you nothing better to do than watch me creep down a flight of stairs like an invalid?" he asked, and Kíli thrilled to hear the easy, teasing note in his voice, which had been absent for so long.

Ignoring the sour look his brother threw him, Kíli reached out and straightened the shoulders of the tunic Fíli wore, easing a clasp in place that had not quite been managed. It was the small things that remained difficult, mostly. He raised an unimpressed brow when Fíli huffed. "Did you not do the same for me, once?" he asked. "I seem to remember you rebraiding every plait I ever made until I finally gave up the art all together, to say nothing of boot straps and buttons."

"It's a wonder you're able to get up in the morning, sure," Fíli answered. "But you cannot blame me for the braids. You've been stubborn about it since the day you were old enough to squirm."

Fíli's own hair was just now becoming long enough to be woven properly again. He still had yesterday's slightly mashed plait trailing behind one ear. On the other side, the skin had healed, but the new growth was still very sparse and soft. As was the fair, golden beard just beginning to fill back in on his mostly smooth face. In a year or so more, he would look almost like himself again, except for the scar. That remained as before, still pink and raised.

Fíli reached out and smoothed his thumb over Kíli's brow. "You're going to look like an old man before your time," he reproached. Then, his voice softening, he asked, "Try to think of kinder things."

However much he tried, Kíli wasn't able to mask all of the sorrow that lingered, but it was tempered by the warmth he felt when the two of them were together. Taking his brother by the arm, Kíli tugged him toward the window. He said, "It's a nice morning. Let's sit in the light."

Taking back up the leather journal Ori had given him to read, Kíli glanced over the words their cousin had written. It had begun as an epic history, but more recently bits of poetry and airy prose had worked their way in. Ori was much in awe of the elves, and their songs seemed to be going straight to his head.

Near to him, he watched as Fíli reached for a long slender shaft of wood, letting his scared fingers caress the stick. On the table beside it, a beautiful, delicately wrong fiddle sat – or something like one, as it resembled the dwarvish equivalent in the essentials only. It had been a gift from one of the people here, who had seen Fíli's rapt face as it was played, back in the times when he still barely spoke.

"Do you like it?" the elf had asked when Fíli had touched the body, the strings. He was very tall and wore a sword, and though Kíli did not understand their society well, he believed that this was a soldier.

Kíli answered for him when Fíli did not respond, saying, "We used to play. However, such things aren't much use on long, dangerous journeys. We left ours behind."

There had been sadness among the three of then, as though it was something they all understood very well. Then, without preamble, the elf had pressed the fiddle into Fíli's surprised arms, passing the bow into his other hand. "Perhaps it will give you some peace," he said. "A piece of home. Take it with my blessing."

Now, as Kíli watched, the lines went out of Fíli's face as he carefully picked up the instrument and set it under his chin.

The notes were basic, limited to simple melodies as Fíli worked his way around the unfamiliar grip with only three fingers. But slowly the stiffness faded, and the sweet, true tone found it's way to expression, in spite of all obstacles. Kíli listened and let the music wash over him, calming his mind, and soaked in the joy of seeing his brother so content. Not very long ago, even this would have been impossible, yet things were improving and Fíli came back to him a little more every day.

The song came to an end, and Fíli paused, sighing. He stretched his fingers around the neck of the instrument. "It's getting a little easier."

Kíli didn't answer. There had been dark days, and darker nights, when neither of them had been able to believe things could get easier. Even after Elrond had come, and Kíli had finally begun to see his brother reflected in shadowed blue eyes, it had been so. There had been tantrums, and there had been tears, and several times, there had been despair. He answered, "I'm glad."

"I'm glad too," Fíli said, looking contemplatively out the window to where the Golden Wood stretched beyond. "I'm glad we came here. I'm even glad...glad for what happened."

Kíli's head snapped up. "You don't mean that."

But his brother had put the bow back against the fiddle, sliding it across to make a long, mournful sound. Then he stopped and said solemnly, "I've been having dreams, Kíli. Of battle, and corpses. Dwarves, men, and elves. And orcs. I'm looking for you, but when I find you...I think we died."

Kíli said, "I didn't know you were having dreams again."

For a brief moment it was the exasperated older brother who shot him a look, but then he grew solemn again, and Fíli said, "They're just dreams, but they make me think...maybe this is the way it had to happen." He pressed his hand to his chest. "For the first time, I think I believe that we'll survive this quest. Both of us."

Disquieted, Kíli searched for something to say, but before he was able to, there was a sound at the door. Boots in the hall, and then Thorin came in. His face was guarded, but Kíli could see that he brought good news. His knit brows could not hide the fierce light in his eyes. Kíli hadn't seen that fire in his expression for a long time, and it caught his attention immediately.

Fíli, too, sensed that something had changed. Carefully, he laid down the fiddle and walked around the table. "Uncle Thorin?"

They had gone so long without hearing his voice utter anything but noises of fear that whenever Thorin heard Fíli say his name, he looked at him with such affection that it could not be veiled. Kíli watched his uncle and understood. It was another thing that had changed. The tiny fear of abandonment that he had carried around with him since his childhood days had passed; the seedling of bitterness and guilt had been pulled up by the root. He had always loved his uncle, but now he trusted him.

Thorin put out his hands, one on each of his nephews' shoulders, gazing between them both. "I have news," he said.

* * *

Thorin laid his foot down the on stone ledge, the sandy stones crunching under his boot as it came to rest on the shore of Esgaroth. The River Celduin wound up to the north and out of sight, and following it with his eye, Thorin became eclipsed under the shadow of the great Lonely Mountain, his home, with a tendril of smoke wafting from it like a thin black cloud. But even that sign of the battle still to come no longer stirred his heart with fear. Thorin looked upon Erebor as though he owned it already.

The wind blew, bringing with it the sound of an entire camp. An army of three nations, the dwarves and their allies, old and renewed. Hearing them, Thorin stood straight as a king. But no more straight for that than for the presence of another sound – laugher and shuffling as two dwarves made their way up the rock face, jostling one another like lads before they reached his back and made some attempt to act as though they were warriors and not children.

"Everything is ready, Uncle," Fíli said, and Thorin turned to face his nephews.

They stood there, side by side, one looking at him with shinning black eyes, his disheveled hair unwilling tied into some order, undoubtedly by another's hand. And the other... Fíli bore the scar that would never leave him under laughing eyes that no longer looked so distant and hollow. Though a faint shadow still crossed them at odd moments, he looked steady and alert. He rested his hand on the hilt of his sword – only one now, but a one that he wielded as well as before – and cleared his throat.

"Are you ready?" he teased. "Or are you thinking better of this? Bofur has already taken bets on how many people will be eaten before we slay Smaug."

Kíli grunted, unimpressed. "Bofur speaks of nothing but calamity, and I think he enjoys it. I thought he was going to make Bilbo weep this morning. Gandalf knocked him on the head with his staff."

Fíli snickered. "Our poor little fiend; he went white as a sheet. I think he's nervous. It's no small thing to sneak in upon a dragon."

"He will not be alone," Thorin said.

He was still amazed at all those who were here. Not one member of the original company had chosen to return to the Blue Mountains. They were as true as they had been when there was only fifteen souls in the world who thought this day would come, and look at them now.

His gaze went beyond, to the rows of tents, the lines of men from Lake Town with their bows, the elegant shapes of the elven train, and the dwarves sharpening their weapons. The sun bathed them with orange light, making the gathering seem almost unreal. Yet Thorin would never forget those who had followed him from the beginning.

Nor would he take them for granted, he thought, drinking in the sight of Fíli and Kíli. Turning, he faced the mountain once more, feeling his nephews as they came up on either side of him, just as he had desired they would. He braced a hand on either shoulder, thanking Aulë that he could do so.

They were almost home.

All that stood between them now was one small dragon.

* * *

Author's Note: I never intended this story as a "fix-it" for the cannon deaths. In all honesty, the scene where Fili pushes Kili to safety in the goblin tunnels just sprang forth full-grown from my forehead. After that, it was like rolling downhill – a little heady, but not without its bruises. It took some considerable management to get the company full circle after such a detour, thus the "corrections". Besides that, I was simply tempted to use all the combined resources of Tolkien and Peter Jackson – Beorn and Bilbo's ring from Tolkien; Azog and Nori the bandit from Jackson. I also have to give special shout outs to all the actors for making each dwarfs distinct in big or little ways, and to the reviewers who made me much less lonesome.

To: **Aleks, ChaiGrl, chestry007, Horserida, jenthehen, leetha, makaykay15, Nalbal, Nargil, NerdoOfTheFiction, OnPg9, ShadowSweeper, TheLandOfIce, Traya001, tricksters apprentice, Twilightmoonstar, volvagia09, Xeia, **and **yesterdaywillcome,** a very special thanks you for your repeat reviews, for indulging me by copy-and-pasting lines, and for leaving such wonderful comments.


End file.
